


come sit at my fire

by myconstant



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3254492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myconstant/pseuds/myconstant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes even saints need to rediscover their faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come sit at my fire

 

At the front door, Sergio inhales and then knocks.

It is usually just a quick fifteen minute drive from his home, but tonight it is sleeting in Madrid and Sergio doesn’t fully trust his tires, not after that first slip, so it had taken twenty-five. Twenty-five minutes, twenty-five times to remember the whistles in the Bernabéu, his uneven touch on one too many passes, the uniform slouch in his teammates’ shoulders. The chill in the wind is heavy and damp – very Welsh, Gareth had said in the dressing room – and Sergio does a little back-and-forth step to get his blood running, cursing under his breath and digging his fingers back down into his jacket pockets. He was definitely not made for the cold.

There is no concrete sign of life from inside, only the small glow of a light somewhere by the kitchen and Iker’s car collecting ice in the driveway. He thinks about the spare key in his back pocket, the one Sara had given him years ago with a mysterious, strangely knowing smile. He’s put it to good use several times, most notably on Iker’s thirtieth birthday to let the entire first team in at seven a.m., banging on pots and pans and chanting _alé, alé_ until Iker had hauled himself up out of bed and downstairs, every bit as furious and thankful and moved as Sergio could have ever hoped.

So there is one unideal option: he can use the key, open the door, force his way in, and desperately hope that he’s not overstepping this time, that he will be allowed to offer what he can.

A drop of icy rain melts down the back of his neck and Sergio impulsively raps on the door again, maybe a little harder this time, and promises himself that if the door doesn’t open, he’ll get back in his car, turn up the heat, and just go home. He knows that it will sting, because this is no selfless humanitarian mission to help his best friend and captain cope with losing badly, because there is a deep emptiness in his chest that he can viscerally feel, but still, he will go.

Sergio waits as more ice gathers in his hair and the creases of his jacket. He counts backwards from ten and genuinely prays.

Iker opens the door on the count of four, eyes tired and a glass of something dark and alcoholic in his hand. The defeat is there on his face, so vulnerable and so unlike Iker that Sergio feels it in his stomach.

A small uncertain moment passes and instead of _Can I come in_ , instead of _I remembered Sara and Martin are away_ , instead of _Let me help you carry this_ , Sergio shivers and says, “I’m never visiting Gareth’s damn country ever again.”

There is the faint beginning of a familiar smile, a smile that Sergio spends so much of his time chasing, and the door opens wider. He steps inside and thanks god.

 

 

 

With the door closed behind him, Sergio’s first thought beyond _fuck it’s still cold_ is that he wants to pull Iker close and wrap his arms around him and stay like that until there is a valid reason why he can’t – a match or maybe the end of the world. To feel Iker’s heartbeat through his clothes, rub his hands down his back, rake his fingers through his hair. To hold Iker against him and draw the resignation out of his spine.

Sergio’s second thought is to remember that he’s dripping with freezing rain and that Iker is only wearing a thin cotton tee, so he settles on placing a hand on Iker’s warm shoulder and a kiss to his cheek. Iker catches Sergio’s hand with his own and Sergio sees him frown.

“How long were you out there? Before you knocked?”

“Maybe five minutes,” Sergio answers, immediate and truthful, because lying to Iker isn’t something he can easily do.

Iker lets out a small laugh and shakes his head. “You weren’t made for the cold,” he says, quietly amused, and Sergio cracks a smile, his first real one in hours, because he had been thinking the same before.

“We know winter’s not my thing. I either need July or a really, really big fire.”

Iker looks up from where he is lightly rubbing the warmth back into Sergio’s hands. “There’s one in the fireplace.”

Sergio nearly jumps at this, finally hearing the soft crackling noise coming from the den off the kitchen, and he quickly drops his hands to get to work on shedding his jacket, scarf, two layers of sweaters, and boots. When his excess clothing is stacked in a neat pile, he follows Iker down the dim hallway towards the calling sound. The weighty vacant feeling in his chest only just starts to contract.

 

 

 

Inside Iker’s home, Sergio mostly sees Sara. She is in the fresh flowers, the modern art, the carefully arranged pillows, and the bright white walls. There is also a lot of Martin, pacifiers and bottles and stuffed animals scattered everywhere in that precious turning-your-life-upside-down way unique to one-year-olds.

And then there is Iker – a single photo tucked behind a vase of flowers. They were young then, eyes bright and arms slung over shoulders at Valdebebas, still unfamiliar with each other and themselves. The photo has always spoken to him more than any painting, any song, and Sergio touches the upper edge of the silver frame, leaving a new layer on top of all the other smudges he has left before.

Iker is reclined back on the couch with his eyes closed, underlying anxiety only betrayed by his fingers tapping nervously against his glass. Sergio watches for a moment, subconsciously memorizing, before reaching out for the thick quilt neatly folded on the coffee table. He lays the blanket over Iker and gently adjusts the pillows behind his neck. For one glorious moment, Iker hums a little noise of satisfaction before slowly cracking a suspicious eye open.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs a little accusingly, but Sergio, feeling like he’s won something, just grins and jogs to the kitchen. He grabs the half-full bottle of wine from the table and another glass from a cabinet before darting back into the warm, dim den. He settles next to Iker beneath the blanket and pries open the bottle with his teeth and a hollow pop. Pours and watches the flames, not realizing that the warmth has returned to his hands until Iker’s restless fingers briefly tangle with his. A few quiet minutes pass before he presses another quick kiss to Iker’s cheek, this time out of habit, comfort and thanks.

For now, they don't say anything.

 

 

 

Two empty bottles of fine red later, Sergio finds himself on the floor in front of the fireplace, stretched out on the thick rug and howling with laughter.

“And how was I supposed to know that it was Xabi and Steven in there?” Iker continues, sprawled across the couch and gesturing aimlessly, his face thoroughly flushed. “Who breaks into someone else's hotel room to get off in their shower?”

Sergio rubs tears of laughter from his eyes and beams at the ceiling. The animation is back in Iker’s voice, that distinctive cadence that is at once amused, assured, and always a little exasperated. Just this alone makes Sergio feel better.

They don’t bother to talk about the match they’ve lost and he understands why. The older that he gets, that they get, the more each heavy defeat begins to blur into the last, like an injury that never fully heals because he keeps banging into it over and again. It is an ache, no longer a sting, no longer something that can be soothed with _next weekend, next month, next season, next year_.

Instead, they laugh about one of Iker’s first goalkeeping coaches chain smoking and shouting at Iker in quick Italian to run faster _ragazzo_ , and the six - _six_ \- locker keys that Sergio somehow misplaced over his first four months in Madrid. They compare notes on how both of their sons grow every day with a quickness that humbles and stuns. It is an easy, fluid conversation, a flowing traverse over the years, until it is just Sergio talking, each word easing the tension in his heart, and Iker just listening, his hands finally still.

Sergio is almost half asleep when Iker softly says, “You always give.” He states this like it’s an indisputable fact, an obvious thing.

“What do you mean?” Sergio asks, groggy with warmth and wine.

“With me. You give more than you take.”

Again, a fact.

“I give and I take. I do both.” He emphasizes this by quickly sitting up and plucking Iker’s glass from the coffee table to take a long sip. Iker scowls, another one of those expressions that Sergio secretly lives for, and irritably nudges against Sergio’s leg with his foot.

“See?” Sergio grins, wide-awake again and totally encouraged. “I’m taking.”

Iker rolls his eyes and eases off the couch onto the floor. The quilt comes with him. “That’s not how I meant it.”

“How did you mean it?” Sergio teases, playful and coy, even though he thinks he knows.

Iker shifts forward until he's close enough for Sergio to see the faint redness still rimming his eyes from hours before. Behind him, the fire is almost out.

“I think you know,” and there’s Iker reading his mind again, knowing him better than anyone else again, putting Sergio back together by letting Sergio put _him_ back together again.

Iker reaches out and it is like there is no loss, no club, no heavy emptiness weighing either of them down. There is only Iker kissing him with an open mouth and as Sergio gives, Sergio takes.

 


End file.
